Dance
by Claire Darcy
Summary: House calls Wilson for a favor.


_No, really. I AM working on Chipped.

* * *

_

When the phone rang, Wilson had been midway through a dream about House, though he had always been 'Greg' to his subconscious. Dreams including House had been more frequent than he'd admit before the ketamine treatment had apparently been successful. In fact, this one was the first since House had been released from the hospital.

Wilson flung his arm towards the bedside table, clasping his fingers around the cool plastic of his cell phone.

"Hello?" he said groggily, though he was sure that he didn't actually sound nearly that coherent.

"Up and at 'em Jimmy, I need you over here pronto!" Wilson would have been worried about the urgency in his friend's voice if it weren't for the excitement it so thinly veiled. He squinted at the digital clock, groaning as the glowing red numbers focused.

"Christ, House. It's just gone one in the morning. Go to bed and leave me the hell alone." He'd pulled the phone away from his ear, thumb hovering over the 'end' button before hearing House's muffled voice calling out and piercing the darkness. Seeing his night of sleep fleeing him, Wilson put the phone back to his ear. "What?"

"It's important." The giddy note was gone from his voice.

Wilson glanced at the far wall, where the shadows danced as a car passed outside. "Give me twenty minutes," he sighed reluctantly. House hung up before he could change his mind.

Nights of pain had been common before the shooting and House had never been afraid to call Wilson up in the middle of the night. Usually it was only so Wilson could fetch the Vicodin bottle and quickly leave House in his agony. One night, Wilson remembered, House had wanted him to stay and make sure he didn't do "anything stupid and irresponsible," as he'd put it later, despite House's incessant protest. So Wilson stayed that night if for no other reason than to keep him company through the pain.

After House's release from the hospital, Wilson had expected the late nights to disappear altogether with the drugs and the cane. And they had, until now. So either House was messing with him, or…

After pulling on a pair of wrinkled slacks to compliment his rumpled undershirt, Wilson stumbled out of his new apartment and down to where his car sat, unassuming. The cloudy sky was tinted a sickly orange from the city lights, and there was a ghastly chill in the air. The still-foreign neighborhood was distorted in the darkness, and he felt that he couldn't even recognize it now.

A dim light shone through the front window of House's apartment, and Wilson didn't think it was the unnatural glow of the television he was seeing. He parked his Volvo behind that damned bike, and unsteadily made his way up the front steps. When he rapped his knuckles lightly against the emerald colored front door, there was no answer, so Wilson let himself in. He had been right; the television was off. The odd light was coming from the thirty-some candles scattered around House's messy living room. A tall red one perched atop a precarious stack of medical journals, while another nestled against the surprising full bottle of scotch that sat on the piano. The room was otherwise dark, but Wilson could still make out House across the room, busying himself with the controls of his expensive stereo. He hadn't even acknowledged Wilson's arrival.

"House," Wilson finally said, wearily. It was far too late to be playing House's ridiculous games. "What the hell is this?" House kept his head bowed, but Wilson caught that delicate smirk that appeared across the ragged features as the music marred the silence. The notes were strangely familiar, the haunting tune stirring up memories he'd cast away years before.

"_Greg,_" he tried again. House looked up at last, meeting his gaze with those intense cerulean eyes.

"I wanted to try something," he said simply, before moving swiftly across the room. Wilson's first instinct was to turn and run, but he found that he was more than a little intrigued about what his friend had in his head now. House stepped up close to him, the dexterous pianist fingers encircling his hips. The feel of House pressed flush against him, those fingers tickling the small of his back, overwhelmed his senses.

"House. What-what are you-" he stuttered, but House just smirked as he began to move them in time with the swaying music. And it took a few moments for Wilson to realize that they were _dancing_. House had called him up at one in the morning because he wanted to _dance_. But Wilson was too caught up in the wonderful sensations to be properly angry.

"You remember the last time we did this?" House said after a while of leading them around the living room, showing off his two working legs with a deserved flourish.

Wilson remembered, of course. It had been the night before his first wedding. House had wanted to throw him a 'bachelor party,' which ended up a night of slow dancing and shots of something Wilson could not recall. He'd enjoyed himself right up until the moment he broke his nose on House's fist. He'd had a hell of a time explaining the gruesome bruise to the wedding party.

"I do seem to remember an awful lot of blood," he replied lightly. House's arm tightened around his waist.

His stubbled chin grazed Wilson's neck as he whispered, "I'm not going to hurt you tonight." It was a promise.


End file.
